Author: Marcus Mescher

Last week, Pope Francis released his first major teaching letter, Laudato si’ (“Praise Be,” invoking the opening lines of St. Francis of Assisi’s canticle, “Brother Sun and Sister Moon”). An encyclical years in the making, it weaves together science and theology, ecology and economics to urge not only Catholics and other Christians, but all members of the human family to take better care of our common home, planet earth.

“Today the ecological crisis has assumed such proportions as to be the responsibility of everyone … When the ecological crisis is set within the broader context of the search for peace within society, we can understand better the importance of giving attention to what the earth and its atmosphere are telling us: namely, that there is an order in the universe which must be respected, and that the human person, endowed with the capability of choosing freely, has a grave responsibility to preserve this order for the well-being of future generations. I wish to repeat that the ecological crisis is a moral issue. Even men and women without any particular religious conviction, but with an acute sense of their responsibilities for the common good, recognize their obligation to contribute to the restoration of a healthy environment. All the more should men and women who believe in God the Creator, and who are thus convinced that there is a well-defined unity and order in the world, feel called to address the problem. Christians, in particular, realize that their responsibility within creation and their duty towards nature and the Creator are an essential part of their faith.” (emphasis added)

Republican presidential contender Jeb Bush is not necessarily wrong when he admitted that he doesn’t “get economic policy from [his] bishops or [his] cardinal or [his] pope.” The Church isn’t in the business of writing policy (as Cardinal Wuerl explained on Fox). But its theological and moral teachings ought to be sources of wisdom used to strengthen and otherwise improve practices and policies, which is why it is problematic when Bush continued, “I think religion ought to be about making us better as people and less about things that end up getting in the political realm.”

The very point of politics is to take proper care of the polis, the shared community of citizens. That isn’t a theological claim; that’s the basic point of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (who argued that inquiry into the good, or virtue, must necessarily extend into the public or shared realm of human affairs for that good/virtue to be shared; Cicero made a similar claim in The Republic; the word “republic” literally stems from the Latin “res publica” – the shared thing). The whole point of governance is to create order, stability, security, and opportunities for development for the members of its community. Pope Francis is qualifying this in saying that our political and economic systems are subsystems within a larger context: the integral ecological order of all creation. If we think our subsystem is the only system that matters, we will wreak havoc on not just ourselves, but the whole created order. Francis is asserting that what is missing is equity between human ecology and the larger natural ecology, and, that instead of opportunities for development for some members of the human community, we need new political and economic systems that will provide more equitable opportunities for integral (all-inclusive, interdependent) development for all members of the created order. Francis isn’t critiquing progress; in the spirit of environmental philosopher John Muir, he is insisting, “Not blind opposition to progress, but opposition to blind progress.” Which is precisely where this essential component of Christian faith (see the quote from Pope John Paul II above) to take responsibility for creation can and should be relevant and meaningful for economics and politics. The current system isn’t working, and Pope Francis is offering a much-needed critique to change the status quo. As Laudato si’ claims:

“It is remarkable how weak international political responses have been. The failure of global summits on the environment make it plain that our politics are subject to technology and finance. There are too many special interests, and economic interests easily end up trumping the common good and manipulating information so that their own plans will not be affected … Consequently the most one can expect is superficial rhetoric, sporadic acts of philanthropy and perfunctory expressions of concern for the environment, whereas any genuine attempt by groups within society to introduce change is viewed as a nuisance based on romantic illusions or an obstacle to be circumvented” (#54).

Those who make this encyclical about taking sides in the obstreperous debates about the root causes or impending effects of climate change or the merits of one political party versus another miss the point. Pope Francis is following his predecessors’ emphasis on the essential link between Christian faith and responsibility as creatures to other parts of creation. This is an inclusive call to all to recognize the integrity of all creation (a key focus of the encyclical, since the word “all” appears more than 400 times in the document) so that we might embrace our interdependence with all creation and act in such a way that does justice to each part of the whole created order revealing itself as a sacrament of the divine: “As Christians, we are also called to ‘accept the world as a sacrament of communion, as a way of sharing with God and our neighbors on a global scale’” (#9).

In my eyes, this is a beautiful and brilliant piece of writing. It speaks so eloquently about a tradition of philosophy and theology that cares deeply about the common good (or in this case, “our common home”). It is a call to conscience (#105), to ecological conversion (#5), and moral growth (#127). There have been numerous reflections on this document rich in insight and meaning (see for example, those listed here or here). I applaud those who are echoing Pope Francis’ call to build consensus across religious, political, economic, and social differences (#164), improved appreciation and understanding of the goodness of creation (#215), and increased awareness of the temptations, threats, and other dangers which obfuscate our duties to our common home and eclipse human dignity (#56).

And yet, the encyclical has only been out a week and already it has fallen out of the current news cycle. Sure, some churches will organize reading groups around the document, some teachers will add it to their syllabi, and it may get more attention in a few months at the upcoming UN Conference on Climate Change in Paris. But aside from this, what good will Laudato si’ produce if all those who read it or read about it don’t do something? In other words, with this encyclical, Pope Francis has given us both a gift and a task; the question is, how are we going to respond to each of these?

Aside from Kerry Weber’s reflection on 7 ways to live like Pope Francis, I haven’t seen many articles that try to translate this document into our everyday lived reality (some notable exceptions would include: Chris Pramuk’s connection between the encyclical and the tragic shooting in Charleston and Tim O’Malley’s work to unpack implications for liturgy). I’m not the only one to make this observation, of course, as encyclicals are notoriously difficult in translating from principles to practices. It would violate the virtue of prudence and the sanctity of conscience for the pope to tell every reader what to do next. And yet, the critical “next step” is one of action. As such, Pope Francis concludes the document with a strong call to action throughout Chapters 5 and 6. But in speaking about the need for leadership, dialogue, and shared moral norms, there is a stark disconnect between individuals reading the document and those responsible for the kind of regulatory policies and laws that can create effective change.

I hope readers of the encyclical will contact their elected officials and make it clear that the environment is an important political and economic matter. (Incidentally, I recently learned two pieces of advice for such communication: first, don’t use the phrase “climate change” since it’s too politically controversial; second, it’s important for politicians to see and hear that the environment isn’t just a concern of crunchy-granola, Birkenstock-wearing tree-huggers—which is the actual phrase that was used, not my generalization). Certainly Laudato si’ provides a firm foundation for such conversations. I hope readers will think more carefully about their carbon footprint (which you can calculate here – and given Pope Francis’ explicit link between care for the earth and the poorest of the poor, this should not be in opposition to confronting our slavery footprint). Maybe this document will help more of us be more intentional about the purchases we make and our power as consumers (the Better World Shopping Guide is one helpful tool; Everyday Justice is another).

One of my favorite parts of Laudato si’ is actually a quote from a 2005 homily by Pope Benedict XVI, “The external deserts in the world are growing, because the internal deserts have become so vast.” If everyone on the planet consumed at the rate of Americans, we would need at least 4 Earths to provide for everyone. It’s one thing to call for a more moderate pace of consumption of energy, resources, and products (and a more temperate production of waste). But Laudato si’ is going even deeper. It’s asking us to think about why we consume so much. What is underneath that desire to purchase, possess, and use?

In his book, Being Consumed: Economics and Christian Desire, William Cavanaugh turns this question all the way back to Augustine. Augustine’s insight in Confessions is that to be human is to be fundamentally restless, which, in Augustine’s view is a good thing because it keeps us from being satisfied by anything except that which can ultimately fill us: God (who is our ultimate end, or telos). Being human means being hardwired for God, who is our deepest desire underneath the multitudinous, often fleeting desires we might be responding to more impulsively. Yet Augustine also recognizes the ways in which desire is a social production: our desires are shaped by the world around us and those with whom we interact. In the face of these desires, freedom isn’t capriciously following our desires; it’s being mindful about cultivating true desires. As Cavanaugh writes, “This is not just a matter of wanting too much; it is a matter of wanting without any idea why we want what we want … To desire with no telos, no connection to the objective end of desire, is to desire nothing and to become nothing” (14). Without any specific aim in mind, in other words, the search is literally endless. It is an aimless wandering in the desert, not just in the sense of being alienated and meaningless, but in laying waste to the world around us as we try to fill the void within.

The internal deserts referenced by Pope Benedict XVI are not by accident or by defect in being human. They are—just as Augustine recognized so long ago—socially constructed. We live in a world bombarding us with images and messages that try to make us believe that our value is tied to having and doing; that we can be loved only by marking ourselves with the right symbols, logos, brands, and trademarks. Advertisements feed on our insecurity and push us to conform to standards that can be racist, sexist, and homophobic (and have little to no regard for our impact on the world around us). This insecurity fuels our incessant consumption, which can lead either to a desire for dominance or a spiral downward spurred by fear that we are not, in fact, good or lovable, all of which contravenes the accounts of creation we find in Genesis: all of creation is very good as it is (Gen. 1:36; importantly, the text does not say creation is useful; the value is not tied to some instrumental function toward another end other than itself).

In Laudato si’, Pope Francis makes a personal appeal to his reader, asking that we might grow in an “awareness that each creature reflects something of God and has a message to convey to us, and the security that Christ has taken unto himself this material world and now, risen, is intimately present to each being, surrounding it with his affection and penetrating it with his light.” He continues:

Then too, there is the recognition that God created the world, writing into it an order and a dynamism that human beings have no right to ignore. We read in the Gospel that Jesus says of the birds of the air that “not one of them is forgotten before God” (Lk 12:6). How then can we possibly mistreat them or cause them harm? I ask all Christians to recognize and to live fully this dimension of their [ecological] conversion. May the power and the light of the grace we have received also be evident in our relationship to other creatures and to the world around us. In this way, we will help nurture that sublime fraternity with all creation which Saint Francis of Assisi so radiantly embodied” (#221).

He also asks his reader to pray, giving thanks to God before and after meals, since this “moment of blessing, however brief, reminds us of our dependence on God for life; it strengthens our feeling of gratitude for the gifts of creation; it acknowledges those who by their labors provide us with these goods; and it reaffirms our solidarity with those in greatest need” (#227).

Pope Francis is calling for Christians to take up a “sacramental vision,” to see with eyes that recognize the whole world and all members of creation as good, as sacred, and revealing the divine (#9). Prayer is a practice to help us see the world as God does and try to love as God loves (Jn 13:34) and might foster a “sacramental imagination” capable of creating new possibilities for communication and collaboration among the world’s 7 billion people in service of this fragile, intricate, interdependent created order. It could produce wonder, awe, and appreciation strong enough to subvert the “globalization of indifference” that Pope Francis has previously lamented (or the “globalization of superficiality” as others have called it) and lead to the recalibration of desires toward a telos of right-relationship and integral development. It might generate the moral imagination and will to demand the construction of political and economic practices, policies, and laws to promote the common good, and thus preserve our common home—the home, which the opening lines of this encyclical remind us, “is like a sister with whom we share our life and a beautiful mother who opens her arms to embrace us” (#1).

I still remember the first time I watched the movie “Romero.” It opened my eyes to the realities of people living in conditions I could hardly imagine, growing up in the Midwest. I was moved by Romero’s compassion for his fellow Salvadorans, inspired by his faith, and awed by his courage in speaking out against the government and its violent, repressive regime.

The film paints Romero as a conservative priest and bishop who mostly sides with the religious and political elites until his friend, the Jesuit priest Rutilio Grande, is murdered by paramilitary soldiers—along with two of the three passengers in his car—in broad daylight. Raul Julia’s Romero undergoes a conversion at this moment, defining his three years as Archbishop of San Salvador with a bold vision for preaching the Gospel, denouncing injustice, and maintaining a firm perseverance, willing to accept the cost, even if it means death.

This version of Romero makes for a compelling plot-twist and gives hope to those of us who may more readily identify with the pre-conversion Romero characterized more by piety, kindness, and conformity to the status quo than by the powerful words and heroic actions that precipitate Romero’s murder in March 1980. Yet this version stands in stark relief to the man revealed by his own words and the testimony of those who knew him.

It wasn’t until graduate school in theology that I had the chance to read his reflections and homilies, pastoral letters and radio addresses. There I discovered a richer, fuller version of Romero who long had a heart for the poor. I discovered that Óscar had learned the trade of his father, becoming a skilled carpenter. He studied theology at the Pontifical Gregorian University, trained with and by Jesuits, and was ordained a priest in Rome in the middle of World War II. He was profoundly affected by Vatican II and felt a special devotion to Pope Paul VI. He took seriously the call to “read the signs of the times” and was sensitive to the needs of his people, including starting an Alcoholics Anonymous group in his parish in San Miguel, where he served for 20 years. In 1974 he was appointed Bishop of Santiago de Maria, a poor, rural part of southeastern El Salvador. These experiences enlarged his heart and he was remembered fondly by people who felt deeply loved by him. Indeed, “Monseñor Romero,” as he is often called in El Salvador, is a term almost more of affection than respect.

I came to an even deeper understanding of Óscar Romero this month, spending 12 days in El Salvador, listening to stories from those who knew him, visiting the places where he lived and died, reading his words, and contemplating his pictures. Here, Romero came alive.

An exhibit at the Museo de la Palabra y Imagen displays Romero’s personal photographs, which he gave to a woman who saved them for 30 years until they were made public in 2010. I saw Romero the tourist, wearing a suit and tie and standing in front of the U.S. Capitol in Washington, DC. Reclining on the verdant banks of a river in Mexico. Posing in front of the Bridge of Sighs in Venice. Watching the sun rise over Rome from atop St. Peter’s Basilica.

I came to know Romero the person. A son to his parents, Santos and Guadalupe. A brother to 7 siblings. A man with a deep devotion to Jesus Christ and a desire to grow in holiness and serve the people of God in a world marked by violence, poverty, and the consolidation of resources, wealth, and power into the hands of a few. A priest who ministered to men in San Miguel prison, delighted in children, and learned from women’s experiences and welcomed their role in the Church.

It is fitting, then, to recall that his bishop’s mitre read, “Sentir con la Iglesia” (Feel with the Church). Romero’s heart was truly with the whole church. He loved and served the Body of Christ with everything he had to give, and his position as Archbishop made it possible to widen the scope of his concern, commitment, and impact.

After Rutilio Grande was murdered in March 1977, Romero lauded his friend’s work to organize the poor in Aguilares, called for the justice denied to poor Salvadorans, and denounced the government’s institutional use of violence against its own people. To demonstrate the sincerity of these words, Romero cancelled all Masses in the country for the next week, except for a single Mass in the cathedral in San Salvador. As the pace of state-sponsored arrests, torture, disappearances, murders and massacres rose, Romero continued to denounce the use of violence. In the face of critics who called for him to keep out politics, Romero argued in a 1978 pastoral letter,

It is the role of the church to gather into itself all that is human in the people’s cause and struggle, above all in the cause of the poor. The church identifies with the poor when they demand their legitimate rights. In our country the right they are demanding is hardly more than the right to survive, to escape from misery. This solidarity with just aims is not restricted to particular organizations. Whether they call themselves Christians or not, whether they are protected by the government, legally or in practice, or whether they are independent of it and opposed to it, the church is interested in only one thing: if the aim of the struggle is just, the church will support it with all the power of the gospel. In the same way it will denounce, with bold impartiality, all injustice in any organization, wherever it is found.

Earlier in 1978, the day after Easter, Romero opened the seminary in San Salvador for victims of violence, turning it into a shelter and sanctuary for hundreds of hungry, displaced, and depleted people. He delayed construction on the new cathedral in San Salvador, explaining that the funds would better serve the church if it went to feeding, housing, and educating the people.

That same year, Romero moved from his tiny bedroom adjoining the sacristy in the chapel of Divine Providence Hospital to a home built for him by the Carmelite Sisters who served the cancer patients treated in the hospital. The sisters shrewdly had the patients present this humble 3-room house to Romero on his 61st birthday (a prudent decision on the sisters’ part because they knew that if it hadn’t been presented to him by the people, he would have politely declined the gift). One of my favorite pictures of Romero still hangs on the wall in his house: a picture of the archbishop sitting on the ground, enjoying a picnic lunch with a handful of men and women on the side of the road. I saw that picture and did a double-take: an archbishop sitting on the grass, eating and drinking with his people. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a scene like that, and yet it sounds exactly like the kind of priest and bishop Pope Francis has been calling for, shepherds in the midst of their flock, who “smell like sheep.” In this way, Romero didn’t just “feel with the church” in a hypothetical sense; he ate and drank with the people, talked and listened with them. In sharing life together, he fostered more than understanding and empathy; he cultivated solidarity in faith, hope, and love. He was building the kind of church that Vatican II insists the church is called to be: “land to be cultivated” in which each member is called to participate in the mutually-reinforcing work of communion and mission. Romero firmly believed in the universal call to holiness and was committed to helping lay Salvadorans live out that call, even while their government trained soldiers and ordered death squads to intimidate, torture, maim, rape, and kill its own people.

Looking back on the life of Romero through the lens of history, it is easy to take his assassination for granted, especially taking into account the murder of the four U.S. churchwomen (Dorothy Kazel, Jean Donovan, Ita Ford, and Maura Clark) in December 1980 and the six Jesuit priests (Ignacio Ellacuria, Juan Ramon Moreno, Joaquin Lopez y Lopez, Amando Lopez, Segundo Montes, and Ignacio Martin-Baro – as well as their housekeeper, Elba Ramos and her daughter Celina Ramos) in November 1989. This was an era when the Salvadoran government acted with complete impunity (there was no official recognition of the state’s role in Romero’s death until after the left-wing FMLN ended the right-wing ARENA party’s 20-year-rule in 2009), propped up by $6 billion in aid by the U.S. government between 1980-1992 (in addition to training soldiers and paramilitaries at the School of the Americas at Fort Benning, Georgia).

In a context so rife with state-sponsored violence, it is no surprise that Romero anticipated he would be killed. As death threats piled up, he relieved his chauffeur of his duties and drove his Toyota Corona himself. But underneath this vague threat of death and behind the scenes of the bold homilies and radio addresses, Romero feared death, something he confided to friends and the Carmelite Sisters who helped care for him. In fact, one night Romero woke up the sisters and insisted on leaving his home because he could hear the soldiers stomping on his roof, plotting an attack. In the morning, the concerned sisters sent the gardener up a ladder to look for evidence, and then showed Romero the culprits: the avocados that had fallen from the tree in the front yard.

Living with this fear, Romero’s faith remained undaunted. Two weeks before Easter in 1980, he unleashed his boldest homily

“I would like to make an appeal in a special way to the men of the army, to the police, to those in the barracks. Brothers, you are part of our own people. You kill your own campesino brothers and sisters. And before an order to kill that a man may give, the law of God must prevail that says: Thou shalt not kill! No soldier is obliged to obey an order against the law of God. No one has to fulfill an immoral law. It is time to recover your consciences and to obey your consciences rather than the orders of sin. The church, defender of the rights of God, of the law of God, of human dignity, the dignity of the person, cannot remain silent before such abomination. We want the government to take seriously that reforms are worth nothing when they come about stained with so much blood. In the name of God, and in the name of this suffering people whose laments rise to heaven each day more tumultuously, I beg you, I ask you, I order you in the name of God: Stop the repression!”

This homily served as his own death sentence. The very next evening, while celebrating a memorial mass for a friend who had passed away the previous year, Romero stood near the altar in the chapel of the Divine Providence Hospital, just a stone’s throw from his home. He read from the Gospel of John: “Unless the grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains only a grain. But if it dies, it bears much fruit” (12:23-26). He offered a brief homily about the need to give our lives for others as Jesus Christ did. He began to prepare the gifts for consecration, and as he did, he was shot in the aorta and died in minutes. Earlier this week, I stood in Romero’s home and heard the recording of this mass, hearing his steady voice interrupted by the gunshot blast and screams of those in attendance. I stood behind the altar in the chapel, placing myself where Romero offered himself for his people. I gazed down the short aisle of the chapel, knowing the front doors of the church were open that night, so Romero had been staring right at his assassin while he trained his aim on the archbishop from an idling car right outside the chapel doors. I cannot fathom the faith and courage it took to stand there and give his life for others just as Jesus Christ did.

It took no time for the Salvadoran people to recognize Romero as a martyr and saint. 250,000 people showed up for his funeral mass on Palm Sunday, interrupted by bullets and smoke bombs that killed dozens. But the Vatican has not been so quick to recognize Romero in this way. In fact, I was dismayed to learn a few years ago that Pope John Paul II had decided to remove Romero as archbishop and had actually signed the order the morning Romero was killed. Pope John Paul II visited Romero’s tomb in 1983 and 1996 and included him in a list of American martyrs in a ceremony at the Coliseum in Rome in 2000, but Romero didn’t pass the CDF’s theological scrutiny until early 2005 and his official recognition by Rome was halted by the death of John Paul II in April 2005. It wasn’t until Pope Francis’ efforts last year that the Vatican officially recognized what has been clear to so many Christians for 35 years: Óscar Romero died a martyr and saint.

Interestingly, according to church tradition, martyrdom cannot be declared unless the victim was targeted out of hatred for the church and refused to renounce his or her faith. (Adhering to this would seem problematic for other martyrs, like Maximilian Kolbe.) Yet the publicity for Romero’s beatification uses the slogan, “martir por amor” (martyred for love). Surely, Romero’s life was marked by deep love for Christ, the church, and “su pueblo” (the people). But he wasn’t killed for love. He was killed because the Salvadoran oligarchs hated his faith and the implications of making his faith public. Romero pulled back the curtain on those responsible for violence and oppression in the name of fighting the threat of communism. He stood up for human dignity and the rights of all people without exception. He demanded justice for the poor and vulnerable living in El Salvador. And he didn’t just make bold pronouncements; he visited with Salvadorans to hear about the torture, rape, and killings inflicted by soldiers; he drove to village garbage dumps and searched through the trash to find the disfigured bodies left behind. He was a symbol of hope for those that managed to survive the reign of terror.

One of the greatest signs of hope I discovered this past week was seeing the scores of Catholic school students learning about Romero in churches, at the Museo de la Palabra y Imagen, and in the house and chapel at Divine Providence Hospital. I was told that just a few years ago, Catholic schools would not have even brought up Romero’s name in the classroom, much less brought their students to see where Romero lived and died.

My hope is that in these days of celebrating Romero’s beatification, Christians all over the world will come to know Óscar Romero far beyond the labels of “martyr” or “saint.” Dorothy Day famously rejected being called a saint. “I don’t want to be dismissed that easily,” she insisted. Of course we’re all called to be saints—that’s the point of the universal call of holiness—and yet it can be tempting to think of saints like Óscar or Dorothy as extraordinarily pious, perseverant, and rare. In truth, these saints are meant to remind all of us to draw on the strength of the “cloud of witnesses” (Hebrews 12:1) to respond to the call to participate in the “communion of saints” (or, as Martin Luther King might say, the “beloved community”). Romero’s example should be more than celebrated; it should be replicated—not ­­­­­­ in terms of strict imitation, but in personal appropriation. Romero’s faith is a model for our own; his compassion for the poor and suffering and commitment to their liberation for the fullness of life should inspire our own; his courage—even in the face of political and religious persecution (promised by Jesus in the gospels) and death—holds us accountable. The word “martyr” comes from the word “witness,” and Romero, in his life and death, is a witness to the demands of being faithful to the Gospel.

Romero is a reminder of what life can look like when we confront the forces of sin, refuse to kowtow to the rich and powerful and maintain the status quo, and in the spirit of Pope Paul VI, work for justice in the desire for peace. Romero is a witness to faith, hope, and love at work in the world today. In so doing, he desired to be faithful to the example of Jesus Christ and the Salvadorans he loved so deeply.

In an address at the University of Louvain to receive an honorary doctorate a few weeks before he was killed, Romero reflected,

“In the name of Jesus we want, and we work for, life in its fullness, a life that is not reduced to the frantic search for basic material needs … But we see with equal clarity that in the name of Jesus it would be sheer illusion, it would be an irony, and at bottom, it would be the most profound blasphemy, to forget and to ignore the basic levels of life, the life that begins with bread, a roof, a job … When the church inserts itself into the socio-political world it does so in order to work with it so that from such cooperation life may be given to the poor. In doing so, therefore, it is not distancing itself from its mission, nor is it doing something of secondary importance or something incidental to its mission. It is giving testimony to its faith in God; it is being the instrument of the Spirit, the Lord and giver of life. This faith in the God of life is the explanation for what lies deepest in the Christian mystery. To give life to the poor one has to give of one’s own life, even to give one’s life itself. The greatest sign of faith in a God of life is the witness of those who are ready to give up their own life. “A man can have no greater love than to lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). And we see this daily in our country. Many Salvadorans, many Christians, are ready to give their lives so that the poor may have life. They are following Jesus and showing their faith in him. Living within the real world just as Jesus did, like him accused and threatened, like him laying down their lives, they are giving witness to the Word of life.”

Óscar Romero did more than say these words; he lived them to his last breath. The fact that he did so makes him a saint and martyr, to be sure. But let us not forget that he was a person like you and me and that his example in faith, hope, and love ought to continually inspire and improve our own.

In the days leading up to this year’s Super Bowl, journalists pondered whether the NFL’s drive to increase revenue might come at the cost of squeezing out the NFL’s broadest fan base. NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell enticed owners back in 2010 with the goal of tripling league revenue to $25 billion by 2027. As USA Today reported, that would put the NFL among the ranks of McDonald’s, Nike, and Goodyear Tire. In lamenting this trend and the cost-hikes shouldered by fans, one sports economics professor lamented, “Nothing is really sacred anymore.”

$4 million 30-second commercial spots, $295 replica jerseys, and $14 beers aren’t exactly testing the limits of sanctity, at least not relative to some other things being squeezed out in this crusade to expand the NFL’s entertainment empire.

Like morals.

This past Friday, Roger Goodell held a news conference to promise that the NFL will get its house in order. This was held in the wake of the NFL mishandling a series of personal conduct issues with its players, the worst of which include domestic abuse and child abuse.

Adrian Peterson, who is charged with child abuse after using a switch on his son as a form of punishment for misbehavior, was deactivated for one game, but after his Vikings team lost 30-7 to the Patriots, he was reinstated. It was only after fans, sponsors, and Minnesota’s governor protested that Peterson was again deactivated by the Vikings.

Football is a violent sport. The violence of the NFL is part of the spectacle. And even though some are paying more attention to the consequences of this in-game violence, these off-the-field issues shouldn’t be eclipsed by the entertaining buzz of game highlights, fan loyalty, and player adoration – and certainly not the powerful undercurrent of trying to minimize negative publicity in order to fan the fire of increasing revenue.

It should be said that this is not a problem that is exclusive to professional football. But one of the reasons why this needs to be addressed is because of the precedent being set about how player misconduct should be handled. There are too many painful cases to cite, from the allegations against Florida State’s Jameis Winston to the crimes of Penn State’s Jerry Sandusky, where assault and abuse have been largely ignored or entirely covered up to protect a player or program from falling into disgrace (and losing revenue for the respective program, to boot). There are even cases of high school football players implicated in sexual assault in which their interest and “promising future” – rather than that of the victims of the assault – have gotten preferential treatment (as Meghan Clark has pointed out). If professional athletes commit such egregious offenses and receive a slap on the wrist, why wouldn’t younger male athletes come to expect the same? Empire breeds entitlement.

I find it sadly ironic that for most of the first half of 2014, the most controversial story in the NFL was that former Missouri defensive end Michael Sam announced he was gay before the NFL draft. Sam was drafted by the St. Louis Rams in the last round of the draft, but cut from the team before the start of the regular season. Sam – since signed to the Cowboys practice squad – was labeled a “distraction,” and pundits debated how the NFL could avoid a “culture war” by including an openly gay player on one of its teams. The NFL predictably fumbled this opportunity to advance civil rights, tolerance, and respect. While the reaction to Sam was not as negative as some anticipated, we still witnessed a culture of machismo, homophobia, and revenue-boosting self-interest. That same culture might be the NFL’s undoing as America’s greatest sports empire, unless it can change the attitudes, actions, habits, and systems that serve as such vile propaganda for this vicious vision of manhood.

The problem with empire is that, according to Joerg Rieger, it “wants to shape everything – not just economics and politics. It wants to shape what you believe.”

Empire is seductive and the entertainment empire of the NFL wants us to believe that this is all harmless sport worth every dollar and every minute we spend on it. But, as Reiger notes, when faced with the overpowering influence of empire, there are only two options: acquiescence or resistance. Jesus resisted empire. His teaching and healing ministry critiqued the powerful and prioritized the most vulnerable. If we take that example seriously today, we ought to be deeply dissatisfied with the NFL’s brand of entertainment, its handling of abuse, and the messages it is sending about the value of women and children. We ought to be clear that people are more important than profit, and that it is utterly unconscionable to build an empire at the expense of the dignity and rights of women and children.

If we took this seriously, perhaps we’d disrupt the flow of revenue that’s funding this empire, and thereby prove that it’s not actually true that “nothing is really sacred anymore.”

Sociologist Robert Bellah has described Memorial Day as a day that serves to “integrate the local community into the national cult” of American civil religion. Memorial Day was first officially observed on May 30, 1868 for Americans to pause in awe and gratitude for the supreme sacrifices made by those who died fighting in the Civil War. It was originally called Decoration Day, as the graves of Union and Confederate soldiers were decorated with flowers.

Since then, the 620,523 women and men who have died fighting for our country in World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan have been remembered on this day, moved by Congress in 1971 to the last Monday of May.

In 2000, President Clinton passed a resolution requesting that Americans observe a “National Moment of Remembrance” at 3pm local time, pausing to remember and respect the lives lost by our servicemen and servicewomen. In 2002, the VFW released a statement lamenting American’s nonchalant observance of Memorial Day and trying to rally support for legislation previously introduced in Congress to return to the practice of observing Memorial Day on May 30, in the hope that this stand-alone holiday might reorient more Americans back to the day’s original significance.

Since, for most Americans, Memorial Day is a day for relaxation and fun, backyard barbeques, and the official start of summer, it makes me wonder what kind of “civil religion” Bellah would describe us practicing today.

I have to admit the reason I went to a Memorial Day Parade last year was to show my son the marching bands and the flashing lights on the police cars and fire engines. And it was mostly for the fire engines.

Once there, however, I was taken aback by what I saw: in addition to the bands and dance troupes, a few antique automobiles, and a police and fire detail, there was a squadron of fragile-looking senior veterans marching to honor their fallen comrades. I was struck not only by the charisma surprisingly revealed through their fragile figures, but the sparse crowd that stood at attention for them. It was mostly other senior citizens and young families who had brought their children to take in the sights and sounds. There were a few others who were in their 20s and 30s, but most were casually talking over coffee or flipping through their phones. My eyes locked with a veteran pulling a wagon full of American flags waiting to be handed out – to spectators who either didn’t want a flag or who never showed up in the first place. And this was in Cambridge, just blocks from where George Washington took command of the American Army on July 3, 1775, leading America’s first soldiers to confront tyranny.

After my surprising sense of anger at the seeming apathy of my fellow citizens subsided, I had to acknowledge that this was my first Memorial Day parade since my grandparents took me by the hand to one as a child. Both of my grandfathers were veterans, and I still remember the pride in their eyes when they’d stand, remove their hats, and place their hands over their hearts as the American flag would pass us. They never spoke of their friends and relatives who never made it home, but I have long felt a sobering sense of gratitude for the fact that my grandfathers did return home – or else I may very well not exist.

I have complicated feelings about our armed services. Saving Private Ryan was released when I was in high school, and the awe I felt watching the honor and sacrifice of the soldiers on the screen made me wonder if I had what it took to serve my country and the cause of freedom. When it was time to think about choosing a college, I investigated the service academies and considered a future in the military, but got turned off by what I saw as systematic endorsement of rigid conformity, blind obedience, and a good deal of bureaucratic inefficiency. The more I got involved in community service and international immersion trips, the more skeptical I became of the good being done in the name of our national defense. I learned about the School of the Americas and other injustices inflicted abroad. And the fact that 27 cents of every $1 paid in taxes goes to the military when there are so many grave needs in our schools, health clinics and hospitals, and neighborhoods.

I was in college on 9/11 and in the days afterwards. I remember the swell of patriotism, and in some cases, xenophobia. I studied abroad in Madrid after the U.S. invaded Iraq in March 2003 and was advised by friends, family, and even professors to try to pass for a Canadian, in order to avoid the derision of Europeans opposed to America’s unilateral aggression. I was exposed to a lot of views throughout my studies and travels in Europe that I never heard, read, or saw back home. It opened my eyes to how the U.S. is viewed by (some of) those outside our borders.

I’ve had illuminating conversations with students at Catholic colleges who are enrolled in R.O.T.C or are veterans attending college after already having served our country. They remind me that the military is a vehicle for social mobility, and in some cases, one of only a few viable options to pay for college without being overwhelmed by student loans. They also point out the humanitarian aid and peace-keeping operations enhanced by U.S. military resources, personnel, and expertise.

My feelings are complicated because of all these complex issues. I don’t mean to reduce everything down to one issue or a single day. Mourning the departed and honoring their sacrifices on Memorial Day should stand distinct from paying tribute to our surviving vets on Veterans Day. War isn’t the same as national security; moreover, the rise of terrorism has changed how to approach both. Although recent headlines ranging from reigning in defense spending to sexual assaults on soldiers by other soldiers add to my hesitations, these concerns shouldn’t be projected onto all our soldiers, especially fallen heroes from previous decades. It takes great courage to stand up to evil, and their courage should not be forgotten.

I’ve discussed these ambiguous feelings because they might be shared by others who feel committed to the cause of human dignity and human rights, to justice and peace. But such uncertainties shouldn’t give us license to be stand-offish when it comes to honoring those who’ve paid the ultimate price for the privileges and liberties we so readily enjoy.

Labor organizer Mother Jones famously urged people to “Pray for the dead, and fight like hell for the living.” In a homily earlier this week, Pope Francis stressed the fact that “Courageous, humble, and strong prayer can accomplish miracles,” and lifted up victims of wars and refugees as being in particular need of our prayer. These steadfast prayers for peace and healing should be combined with public action that demonstrates support for those who have been forced to bear the costs of war, both personal and financial. Visiting a cemetery, standing at attention for a parade, or observing a moment of silence at 3pm today might be the first step to revitalizing our commitment to uniting our prayer and action to honor the dead and fight for the living.

This Mother’s Day, Americans will spend an estimated $21 billion to show their appreciation and love to the women who gave us the gift of life. That breaks down to almost $170 for each consumer to say “Thank You!” in cards, flowers, brunch, and other gifts.

Moms certainly deserve the recognition, thanks, and praise. But we should be better about doing this all year long. And we should more consistently stand up for all the women in our lives, including others’ moms or moms-to-be.

Robert and Sarah’s posts this past week highlight the denigrating images, messages, and pressures put on women today. Robert cites the “real beauty” campaign by Dove. And while Dove’s attempts to subvert dominant paradigms of unrealistic standards of beauty are laudable, Dove’s parent company, Unilever, runs ads with almost the opposite message for a different subsidiary, Axe (Axe soaps and scents seem to strip women of any brainpower or agency by depicting them as magnetically – and lustfully – drawn to any man who dons their product). Ads like these make it hard to reverse trends that indicate women have one negative thought about their body every waking hour – and that as many as 97% of women have at least one negative body thought a day.

Maybe there’s more we can do for Mom – and other moms and moms-to-be – than send a card or some flowers once a year?

These are not subjects that are easy to discuss. Yet if we are going to honor Mom, we should move beyond words and gestures of gratitude. We need to confront the realities of sin, both personal and social, that degrade moms and all other women and girls across our country and all over the globe.

This means addressing the fact that 40 million Americans watch porn regularly, including 70% of 18-24 males. It requires that we acknowledge porn is so pervasive that it accounts for 35% of all internet downloads, is exposed to children on average by age 11, and that Sunday is the most popular day of the week for watching porn. If ever there was a day to abstain, let’s hope it would be Mother’s Day. Not only out of respect for Mom, or sisters and daughters who may one day become moms, but to girlfriends and spouses, since such widespread viewing is being linked to growing trends in sexual dissatisfaction, infidelity, and divorce.

It means confronting the fact that even if we vow never to raise a hand to a woman in our house, 1 in 4 women will still experience domestic abuse in their lifetime. The same ratio of college women are sexually assaulted, and the numbers are also disturbingly high among high school girls, reaching almost one in five. It’s not enough to refuse to be a perpetrator; we must be committed to being allies and advocates who are actively and steadfastly working to end violence against women. One way to honor Mom is to end the culture of indifference that persists in our enlightened age that professes a commitment to liberty and equality.

If we fail to acknowledge and atone for these sins, Mother’s Day risks becoming a Hallmark Holiday that ultimately rings hollow. Moms and moms-to-be deserve better than that, especially since their love for us is anything but just-for-show.

Boston has been my home for almost six years. It didn’t take me long to love it. I’m not sure if it’s the blue-collar feel to a city that prides itself in not being New York, if it’s the way Bostonians are so passionate about their hometown and hometown teams, or the patriotism that pervades every crooked cow-path, reminding those who walk its red-brick sidewalks that the American Revolution was born here, thanks to those who stood up to tyranny. All this in spite of the fact that Boston boasts being the “Hub of the Universe.”

The truth is Bostonians take themselves very seriously. And that’s not all. As Boston Globe columnist Kevin Cullen has described, Boston only cares about three things: sports, politics and revenge. This has become a rallying cry for Boston since the tragic events at the Boston Marathon this past Monday. In fact, the refrain from local voices and even President Obama has become: they picked the wrong city for a terrorist attack.

I understand the sentiment behind these claims. Let’s overcome fear. Let’s rally together. We shall overcome. To show solidarity. #BostonStrong.

But in saying this was the “wrong city,” does that imply that somewhere there’s a “right city” for such a devastating and terrifying experience? And by priding ourselves in revenge, are we on the right path for healing and reconciliation?

Of course, I was among the thousands if not millions of people who felt relief Friday night at the news that the second bombing suspect, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, was captured. Alive, no less. I understand the outpouring of support, thanks, and praise for all our law enforcement officials who worked bravely and tirelessly to bring the 23-hour manhunt to an end.

But I am a bit bewildered by the jubilation and celebration that followed – including in places outside Boston. It reminded me of the response I saw and heard (though not quite like this) the night Osama bin Laden was captured just under 2 years ago. What should our response be to news like this? I’m not sure there’s one right answer.

To be sure, we should be relieved the threat of terror is over. And thankful to those responsible for removing the threat. But we shouldn’t lose sight of the pain and suffering, injury and death that have been caused – and that so many continue to face and endure.

As awful as the last week has been, we also should not lose sight of the fact that in far too many places, horrors such as these are common, yet unpredictable experiences: roadside bombs, hijackings and kidnappings, rape and murder by gangs, militias, and other unrelenting and remorseless criminals.

As scary and senseless as this has all been, it’s not even close to what people experience on a daily basis in places all over the world, whether it’s Aleppo, Delhi, Juarez, Kabul, Rio de Janeiro, or the West Bank, to name only a few.

I appreciate the sentiments behind #BostonStrong. But the truth is, most of us were spared the worst of these terrorist attacks. The vast majority of the marathon’s 27,000 runners are safe. My heart grieves for the spectators who were killed or injured last Monday. And for the MIT Police Officer killed on Thursday night and all those whose lives were put into fearful disarray by Friday’s manhunt. Yet the vast majority of Bostonians – natives and transplants alike – were simply cooped up for one day, abiding by the ‘shelter in place’ knowing that, more than likely, it would be more of an inconvenience than a real and imminent threat to their own personal safety.

I understand the public demonstrations are meant to help people feel equipped and empowered to overcome fear and return to a sense of normalcy – whatever that might be, and however long it might take. But we should be careful about the rhetoric we employ to rally the city and all those affected by this past week’s events. There is a difference between justice and vengeance. Between relief and celebration. And between taking pride in resilience and taking pride in revenge.

In the wake of the September 11th terrorist attacks, Blessed John Paul II called on Christians to be agents of a “culture of love” and to make peace and reconciliation a priority in the days ahead.

As we wait for answers from Dzhokhar Tsarnaev and try to piece together the why and how of the past week, it will be easy to demonize this 19-year-old and his older brother, Tamerlan. For too much of our history, Christians have been quick to scapegoat. Miroslav Volf, author of Exclusion & Embrace: A Theological Exploration of Identity, Otherness, and Reconciliation, reminds us that Christians have a duty to unmask these mechanisms to dehumanize and exclude. Volf explains,

“Forgiveness flounders because I exclude the enemy from the community of
humans even as I exclude myself from the community of sinners. But no one
can be in the presence of the God of the crucified Messiah for long without
overcoming this double exclusion — without transposing the enemy from the
sphere of the monstrous… into the sphere of shared humanity and herself from
the sphere of proud innocence into the sphere of common sinfulness. When
one knows [as the cross demonstrates] that the torturer will not eternally
triumph over the victim, one is free to rediscover that person’s humanity and
imitate God’s love for him. And when one knows [as the cross demonstrates]
that God’s love is greater than all sin, one is free to see oneself in the light of
God’s justice and so rediscover one’s own sinfulness.”

Chanting “USA! USA!” on Friday night strikes me as a bit strange because, unlike the capture of Osama bin Laden, this wasn’t about ending the threat from an enemy afar. Dzhokhar Tsarnaev is an American citizen. He attended a renowned public high school in Cambridge and was one of the 250,000 Boston-area college students. And, from reports by friends and teachers, this might’ve been the last person they expected to inflict these kinds of terrors.

In other words, the emphasis on #BostonStrong and flag-waving patriotism might be misplaced. It doesn’t necessarily show solidarity and support to the lives lost and hundreds of others affected. And it also doesn’t help us get to the bottom of why the Tsarnaev brothers felt, thought, and ultimately acted the way they did. And neither does it get us closer to preventing these kinds of events from taking place again.

Of course, initial reactions like those seen and heard and replayed by the media in the last few days are not carefully constructed in advance. The more important matter is how we respond in the days ahead. In Boston and across the country, there will be innumerable responses to this past week’s senseless horror and to all the difficulties the victims of terror and their families and friends will now have to face. But Christians – in all places, but especially in Boston – should lead the way forward for justice, peace, and reconciliation. We should strive to set an example of a virtuous response to terror. And in so doing, may we provide the comfort, healing, and solidarity that is so desperately needed today, in Boston, and so many other places around the globe.

I say all this because I love Boston and believe its rich tradition of patriotic citizens and faithful disciples demands a legacy of being devoted to more than just sports, politics, and revenge.

As the world gets to know Pope Francis, one thing is becoming overwhelmingly clear: this is a man who takes the symbolic meaning of his actions very seriously. From the way he travels to the way he preaches, from where he stays to how he prays, this is a man whose dispositions and actions reveal a character marked by the virtues of piety, simplicity, humility, and solidarity with the poor.

Illustrated by this picture recently posted on Facebook by Catholic Relief Services, Pope Francis’ emerging legacy already seems to focus on doing. Just like the parable of the Good Samaritan, when Jesus reminds his disciples it’s not enough to know that the heart of Christian faith is to love God and one’s neighbors; his command is to “Go and do likewise” (Lk 10:37). In studies of what determines whether or not Christians are actually good neighbors, Yale Professor of Psychology Paul Bloom reports that religious education, family background, moving sermons, and even the degree of one’s personal piety matter far less than belonging to the kinds of relationships and networks that inspire and sustain a commitment to practicing these attitudes and actions.

Much has been written this week about Pope Francis’ exhortation for Christians to spend time this Holy Week to go to the ones who are suffering (including great pieces like this and this in Millennial). This echoes the repeated calls of Jesuit theologian Jon Sobrino to care for the “crucified peoples” of today. Sobrino’s theology is oriented by his conviction that the gospels depict in Jesus a man who cared more about people’s suffering than their sinfulness. Attentive to this suffering and mindful of Leonardo Boff’s indicting claim that future generations will call us “barbarian, inhuman, and shameless for our great insensitivity to the suffering of our own brothers and sisters,” Sobrino turns to Jesus’ resurrection as “our final view of existence and its meaning [for] what we can hope for, what we must do.”

Sobrino’s emphasis on the resurrection is not naïve Easter euphoria or utopianism. Instead, he reminds us that the resurrection is the source of the Good News, the dynamism that helps us face the “greatest hurdle facing evangelization,” which is “the lack of conviction that good news is possible.” Indeed, Easter Sunday gives us new eyes to see what we can hope for and what we must do.

Because Good Friday isn’t the end of Jesus’ story – Easter is.

Thus, more is possible because of what we believe and celebrate on Easter. But this is more than looking backward at a historical event, or anticipating a future, eschatological reality. Sobrino employs a line from the brilliant theologian Karl Rahner to describe Jesus’ triumphant resurrection as a “permanent prevailing,” which allows us “to experience the repercussions of Jesus’ resurrection as such in our own lives here and now.”

This leads Sobrino to conclude that the resurrection – as already but not fully realized – allows us to live now as “risen beings” entrusted with the mission to “do what God himself does: to take the victim Jesus down from the cross.” Sobrino then insists that this requires that we work to take the “crucified peoples” down from their crosses today. This is what it means to say that the resurrection is something to be lived: we are called to follow the crucified Jesus and put the Risen Christ into action.

Living as risen beings means to practice resurrection (to quote a line from Wendell Berry’s “The Mad Farmer Liberation Front”). Augustine once preached, “We are a resurrection people and Alleluia! is our song.” This is what the prophet Isaiah refers to when envisioning the new heavens and the new earth (Is 65:17) and what Saint Paul meant when he described the “new creation” made possible in Christ. According to Paul, for Christian disciples everywhere, this implies the gift and task of participating in this new creation as Christ’s own “ambassadors of reconciliation” (2 Cor 5:16-21).

In his pastoral letters, Paul attests to the fact that this is the way to cultivate the virtue of eusebeia, commonly translated as “piety” or “godliness” (e.g., 1 Tim 2:2, 4:7-8; Titus 2:1-10). Eusebeia provides a bridge to the theological virtues of faith, hope, and love. It is the virtue of ordering ourselves first to God, and making this right-relationship the foundation for pursuing and practicing the other virtues in relationships with others. It is a virtue not for piety’s sake, but for restoring right-relationship, wholeness, and balance (shalom) with all God’s people.

It is this virtue that seems to most effectively express the example being set forward by Pope Francis. Perhaps his humble, joyful example will inspire more of us to realize our vocation as Easter people and to practice resurrection wherever we are.

And, like the Good Samaritan, to be willing to go out of our way and into the ditch so we can be risen beings together, on the margins and with those who are suffering and crucified today. To make the places we find ourselves – at home, in school, at work, in our neighborhoods and parishes – communities of practice to inspire and sustain these virtues for loving God and our neighbors.